Kindred
by xXSimplySunshineXx
Summary: There is a home in upstate New York, where a husband and wife reside. However, they are not your typical couple. One of the two is not what they seem, and the next will find out just what it means to have a little white lie be discovered, when a kindred spirit is more alike than most would think. (I have no idea if Science-Fiction is a correct genre for this, but I guess it works.)


**Author's Note:** This is a story I wrote a while ago, but never got to publish. So, well, here it is! I hope it doesn't bore you too much.

* * *

Twenty-six candles decorated the vanilla cake, situated atop the granite counter. Delicate hands straightened each one, taking great care never to ruin the smoothed alabaster icing. He was going to be surprised all right, this was the best cake she'd ever made - it wasn't burned in the slightest. Perhaps she wasn't the greatest cook on the East Coast, maybe the whole Western Hemisphere, but at least she gave it her best effort. That was all her husband asked for, even if she was an arsonist while in her -or any- kitchen.

He was a kind and generous man, her husband. He hardly minded if dinner was a bit charred. And if he did, nothing was mentioned about it. Her terrible homemaking skills aside, it seemed only proper to show her great advancements within the baking realm on his birthday. A smile curved the corners of her lips, breaking into her rosy cheeks and causing the bones to rise. He would be so proud of her, she just knew it.

Whitney became entirely engrossed with perfecting her precious baked delight, so much so that she almost didn't hear the paws scraping on the screen door until he began whimpering. Just how could she have forgotten about Alfie? Whitney rubbed her frosting laden palms together, and scurried over to the back door, which was right across from the counter.

"Poor puppy," she cooed in a heightened soprano tone, and pulled back the screen to grant their pet pooch entrance. Before she could blink, a mess of brown fur zoomed underneath her legs and into the kitchen, heading straight for the food bowl. She shook her head, that dog thought of nothing but kibble and chew toys.

With the sound of Alfie crunching away in the background, Whitney stared at the shameful state of her hands. They were covered in white glaze, a mix of cooking oil and egg whites, and perhaps a bit of breading. It was hard to tell. A grimace stole the happy glint in her eyes as she made her way to the kitchen sink, keeping those filthy hands far from her new dress, despite the apron she wore. Once she reached the sink, however, the Leonburger had already finished his second dinner, and decided he was going to try and pull off that apron.

"Now you cut that out," she scolded, meaning well. This behavior simply could not continue into his adult years. "I mean it, Alf, no gnawing." Whitney gave a gentle push to Alfie's snout, causing him to growl and latch onto her sleeve. "I can't play now, Alfie, I've got to get everything set up. I'll play with you later." She ruffled the fur on the top of his head, but it did no good regarding his renewed nibbling of her apron. Whitney glanced toward the ceiling, then down to the pup. Bending her knees to reach Alfie's level, (while he continued munching), she clasped her hands together and tried to appear excited. "Where's Daddy?" she raised the pitch of her voice. Whitney smiled when their dog perked up, tail wagging, and stopped gumming her apron. "Daddy's home, Alfie, go find him, go find Daddy!" She put in one last big effort, and Alfie the Leonburger spun in a circle, then out the kitchen archway, yapping all the while.

Whitney let out a large sigh, just as the front doorbell rang out. "In a minute," she called, her line of sight coming to rest upon an uncooked dish above the stove. She stomped her foot, and stormed over to the oven, her fingers wiggling in agitation as the bell chimed again. "I'll be there in a minute!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, and then shoved the pan into the oven.

Although, when she spun around to begin her trek to the living room, a blankness swept over her mind. There was no knowledge of what she was doing, what she had done, or what she was about to do. There was just nothingness. Dizziness crippled her vision, and caused the room to spin in an upside down circle. A groan rumbled within her throat; she lowered her eyelids, and grabbed onto the oven handle behind her for support.

"Tony?" she called out, in too weak a voice for him to hear from upstairs.

Scratching her fingernails on the smooth bar, she resolved to open her eyes again, risking the complete emptying of her stomach. However, once she did, everything returned to normal. She had the past, present, and future knowledge she lost.

But she forgot she even forgot in the first place.

While pressing a few fingers to her aching temple, whoever was at the front door decided to ring the bell several times, further disintegrating Whitney's patience. "I'm coming, just hold your dangnabit horses!" she shouted, and reached behind her back to undo her apron. "First it was the dog, then it was the casserole, now it's the crazed lunatic at the door," she muttered under her breath, and hung the apron up on the side of a cabinet nearest the archway. Whitney kept mumbling to herself about various housewifely responsibilities right up until she reached the door. And once she had opened the mahogany wood, who she saw gave her quite a startle.

Her features elongated after she recognized the head of blonde hair in front of her. "Justin?" Whitney took a step back, her hand flying to rest on her collarbone.

A look of amusement, horribly concealed, presented itself in the slight upturning of one corner of Justin's mouth. "You're so surprised to see me? We used to be good friends. However," his opalescent orbs shifted from hers to the manila folder in his hands, "this isn't a social call, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Whitney glanced to the side, then back to her guest. "W-well. Come on in, it's cold out there." She pushed the door open wider, allowing him to enter a house that she worked tirelessly to make a home that she -they- always wanted. A home for their future children, for themselves, and anyone who came to their door. Perhaps even for a person with such a notorious reputation for being a louse, like Justin Hammer.

"Thank you," he said in his signature tone. His voice used to create a lump in her throat, and to the present day, it still did. There was something about him that set her heart plummeting towards her stomach; the expression on his face, the gleam in his eyes, or his all-too-childish tone of voice. Whatever the case might have been, having that man within five feet of her figure at night, while her husband was a full floor away, set off an alarm deep-seated inside her brain - an alarm only a woman had.

Whitney plastered on a forced smile, and gestured towards the couch, which was now in front of them. "Won't you sit down?" she tried to appear as the picturesque hostess, though she hadn't quite learned how to be one yet.

"What a quaint little house you've made for yourselves," Justin observed their "quaint" living room. His eyes resembled laser beams as they bored into hers, and because of his gaze, she became most uncomfortable. "I think you've grown since I saw you last, Whitney. Yes, I believe you have. About an inch, perhaps? It's strange to think of you as an adult, instead of a scrawny girl who locks herself in conference rooms. Accidentally, I'm sure."

Biting back an agitated sigh, Whitney laid her hands on the skirt of her cotton dress. "Is there something you came here for, Mr. Hammer?"

At her previous question, Justin burst into laughter, causing her to jump three inches. "Now just where did this 'Mister' come from? You've turned out to be such a proper little thing, haven't you?"

"Thank you for coming all the way down here to say such nice things, but I'm very busy. Keeping a house is complicated, you know. Dusting. Very difficult." Whitney resorted to a long departed statue form of herself; crossing her legs and raising her chin. "Plus, I think it would be best if you'd discuss any business matters with my husband. If that's what you're here for."

"Is he around?"

"Oh, yes. He-he's in conference right now. Can't be disturbed. I'm sure you can discuss it with me, I suppose. Just this once. He has to tell me at some point or another. I'm his wife. All this is pointless, really."

Justin's head dipped for a moment, then he turned to catch the decorated dining table off to the side. "I do feel bad about ruining such a happy occasion," his expression betrayed his tone. Justin was not upset, in fact, Whitney knew the opposite. He was feeling quite confident, as the glint in his eyes proved. "Do you have anything to drink?"

"Take the water on the table," she rolled her shoulders back and breathed in a gulp of air, feeling her cheeks inflame at her guest's tenacity. He was not only requesting a drink, but an extended stay with it. Both of which she wasn't prepared to offer.

"It's a wonderful arrangement. I hate to ruin it," Justin rose from his seat, and she followed suit.

"Taking a little water isn't going to hurt anything," Whitney assured her visitor with a demure intonation.

She then clasped her hands behind her back and walked towards the table, a movement she hoped her visitor would mimic. And he did. Her guest trailed so closely behind her, that she felt a trace of his breath warming the skin of her neck.

It drove the wife to shiver, twice.

Whitney cleared her throat once their tiny trip was finished, although to her, it seemed like a lifetime. She offered him the glass of water she was going to use, if they ever sat down to eat.

"Thank you," Justin received the glass into one hand, while keeping the yellow package in another. He surveyed her immaculate table arrangement. "These must be very happy days for your family."

"Very," Whitney said under her breath, centering a napkin on the table.

He took a small sip. "I heard of Tony's marriage. I had no idea he married _you_ until last week."

"Yes, well." She swallowed another lump in her throat, and ceased her nervous tick of rearranging napkins. "Again, I'm afraid Tony is busy and can't be disturbed for any circumstance. If you came back some other-"

"But if you told him that a very important matter involving his company-"

Whitney spun to face the unwelcome guest. "He can't be bothered."

"Miss-" he started to use her previous name, but once she darkened her eyes, he changed his tune. "_Mrs_. Stark. This is an urgent situation that needs to be discussed. Immediately."

"I am serious, Justin. My husband is occupied and will not be available for quite a while. Now, I would appreciate it if you would leave my house," her tone of voice screamed forcefulness, though  
most of it was faked.

"Fine," Justin huffed. "Give him this when he _is_ available," he handed her the folder.

"Thank you." She tightened both her jaw, and her grip on the envelope. "Can I walk you to the door?"

"Of course."

With a straight, emotionless face, Whitney escorted Justin to the door, and no word or syllable was uttered between the two during the short journey. Not that she wanted him to. Their spoken exchange had driven her close to the edge of both her sanity, and patience. Perhaps the two were interconnected, however, at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care. There was a persistent thump against her skull, and it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to prevent her face from turning into a large beet.

Once they arrived at the glass barrier, the wife's heart decided to quicken its pace. She wanted this man out. But, as with life, she learned that she couldn't have everything she wanted. Justin tossed her a look, which stated of his desire to ask a question, and Whitney was not about to answer one of his probing inquiries. Nevertheless, Justin hardly cared about her feelings on the matter, and therefore, a question was going to be answered.

"Why did you leave town for such a long time, Whitney? You should have taken that accounting job with my company instead."

"Justin, I am losing patience. Rapidly," she conveyed her agitation by crossing her arms and giving the visitor a glare. She was always good at glares.

"But you left so abruptly, dear. I got worried. Where did you go?" Justin persisted in his investigation.

"That is _none_ of your concern, and I think you need to leave. This. Very. Minute." Whitney showcased her seriousness in the matter by opening the door, and resting her hand on the edge.

Upon observing this action, Justin's stance stiffened in an extreme fashion. "Have it your way. Goodnight, Mrs. Stark." The intensity of his contemptuous gaze knocked her sideways for a second, but she soon returned one with the same sort of hatred. To think she could physically take this tall man and pound him into a burger was an amusing thought, but still, she refused to dwell on it. Just in case he could read her mind.

After a few more seconds of the exchange of silent death notes, Justin passed through the archway, and out into the frigid night air. With a shameless slam of the door, the blonde wife released a deep huff through her nose. She tapped her foot, staring at the wooden entryway. "Of all the flat-out ner-" she stopped herself mid sentence, put her hands on her hips, and turned on her heels. Whitney started a mumbled rant with herself, and it endured for quite a while. However, her oration ceased when the aggressive ache near her brain converted to an all-out agony fest, resembling that of the blanked out session that occurred in the kitchen.

Except, this time, she opened her eyes.

_What was she doing in the living room_?

Whitney's hand clenched around the manila folder, and with a silent stare, she wondered why she was holding such an object in the first place. Tilting her head, she strolled back into the kitchen to complete the rigorous preparations for her husband's birthday dinner. Upon entering her simple cavern, a wondrous scent invaded her enhanced nostrils. She just _had_ to sniff at it, several times. Unable to deal with her covetous urge any longer, Whitney relented, placed down the odd, orange folder, and darted around the counter to the stove. She was in luck, whatever delicacy was in that oven, it had completed its baking cycle.

She slipped on her oven mitts which were lying on the counter, and pulled down the barricade keeping her from the sweet escape that was food. Wonderful, delicious food. A casserole, if she was correct on its aroma. Her gloved hands flew to the glass dish's sides, and with ease, she slid it out of the oven. Whitney's stomach growled at the prospect of devouring a whole casserole by herself, though she was faced with a moral quandary. Setting the dish on the table, she began to think. Green bean casserole was her husband's favorite dinner, and if she consumed it on his birthday, no less, it would be a great tragedy.

So, with a deep sigh, Whitney trudged over to another cabinet, plucked out a lid, then dragged herself back to the luscious dish and concealed its exquisite smell.

"Nope," she said to herself. "You'll eat with everybody else."

She then decided it was time to tear Tony away from his gift, and start dinner, considering the fact that their food was beginning to cool. Whitney picked up the casserole, traveled back into the living room, and set it on the table with the rest of the steaming platters. Standing before her elegant arrangement, consummate with their best china and formal silverware; both of which were wedding presents, and examined her work.

Whitney nodded in satisfaction, and entered the kitchen again, this time retrieving the manila folder addressed to Tony, and like a greyhound, she dashed up the steps, but was brought to a halt by a muddle of miniature train tracks on the carpet.

"Beep," said a voice that sounded similar to her husband's. In fact, she believed without a doubt that it was her dearest darling. And with his voice, came a toy train from their bedroom, racing along the tracks.

"Beep, beep," said a second voice, which resembled that of Rhodey. As with the previous code, another train materialized on the tracks. From the bathroom, yet.

"Beep, beep, beep," said a quicker, and decidedly feminine voice, from Tony's office. Again, a new train appeared from that room, onto the tracks with the rest of the birthday present Whitney gave her husband.

The trains zoomed around, seemingly all by themselves, but she noted they were inching closer and closer to one another when crossing an intersection in the middle of the room. After a few more rounds, with Whitney captivated in concern, the trains became so close that they almost collided. Surely, she thought, on the next run they would crash.

And that they did.

The tiny, but cataclysmic disturbance brought out all three train operators, with their narrowed eyes and clenched fists.

"All right, pal, what's with crashing my trains?" Tony confronted Rhodey with crossed arms as well as the mess of fur, Alfie, wagging his fluffed tail behind him.

"Me? You were the one who was off by several, and I mean _several_ minutes," Rhodey retorted.

"Your signal was 'beep, beep'."

"No, that was _your_ signal. Mine was 'beep, beep, beep'."

"That can't be right, because _mine_ was 'beep, beep, beep'. Don't you remember your own signal?" Pepper spoke up, her foot tapping against the carpet.

"Nuh-uh, that was _mine_," Rhodey corrected.

Tony's head turned, and he saw Whitney standing there, amused by the three's banter. "Whitney! Whitney, wasn't Rhodey's signal 'beep, beep'? Didn't I say that?"

Whitney switched her line of sight between the trio. "I-I," she stuttered.

Their three voices interchanged, and it caused her ears to swirl. Each one made excellent points, if rather fast spoken, and the words said by one became indistinguishable from the other. The day was stressful enough without her having to deal with another trumped up crisis. A stinging sensation built up from behind her eyes; her bottom lip began to quiver, and a lump arrived within her throat.

She shook her head in stiff, rapid motions. "Leave me alone!" Whitney burst out, and pushed past the gathering to run into the master bedroom.

As the loud bang from the slammed door echoed throughout the room, the group glanced at each other, guilt embedded in each of their faces.

"I think we overdid it," Rhodey dipped his gaze, shifting his foot along the carpet.

Pepper nipped her cheek. "Maybe it's because, you know, she's a little emotional right now. I mean, with everything going on. I know I'd be a bit touchy if I had to deal with a lot of stuff."

Tony slumped; the role of a husband was complex, and four months was not enough time to get accustomed to its various unpleasant tasks and duties. Taking out the trash was not a difficult task at all, compared with consoling a sobbing wife. "Duty calls," he muttered in a breathless voice.

"Remember: be gentle." Rhodey clapped his shoulder after reiterating the advice he'd spoken long ago.

"Right. Yeah. It's not like she's mad. This'll be a piece of cake," Tony rolled his shoulders forward.

"I would hurry, too," Pepper added, which lit a fire under his soles.

He then tiptoed into the room, quiet as a church mouse, and closed the door without a sound. "Honey, sweetie, baby, lamb?" Tony knocked his fingertips together. "Did I do something, say something? What's wrong?"

Whitney continued sniffling, but raised her head from the blue bedspread. "I put twenty-seven candles on that cake, when you're really only nine-years-old."

"You know, I-I didn't mean to make you sad." Tony inflated his lungs with oxygen, and sat down beside his wife's body. "Is there anything I can do to make you stop crying?" He received no answer, just a couple of arms around his neck and a fluffy head on his shoulder.

Tony heard a small gulp from the woman in his arms, and acting on two years and four months worth of instinct from their relationship, he began to roll off a few sweet words to calm her.

Many sniffles were emitted from the girlish figure, before her light blue eyes met the darker ones he owned. "I-I guess I made a fool out of myself. Didn't I?"

"Nah, they understand. They've known us for years, nothing should surprise them now," Tony diffused his wife's mortification with a spot of humor.

"I suppose so," Whitney swept a finger underneath her eye. "Gosh."

"What?" Tony softened his expression further.

"I don't know, it's just, every little thing's been getting to me lately," Whitney clumped the fabric of her dress in her fingers. "I mean, I always thought I was so calm, and-and collected, you know? I don't understand what's wrong with me." Her response caused a tightness to form in Tony's stomach, and to combat it, he wrapped his arms around her own abdomen.

"It's probably nothing, Whit," was his casual feedback.

"I know it's something because it's driving me nuts," she folded her hands over his. With a sigh of deep proportions, she began to murmur aloud assorted reasons for her atypical behavior. A few seconds passed before he heard a gasp, and was nearly tackled by the same set of arms. They wrapped around his neck like a feathered noose, which laid in waiting for the sole purpose of his gentle asphyxiation. Since, that was her main talent - the utter thievery of any breaths he had left.

Excitement danced around her irises, and the corners of her mouth turned to create a slight beam across her lips. "Darling, do you think...do you think we might have a baby?" there was no mistaking her delight with the possibility, as her voice raised a mark in pitch.

"We can't rule it out," an expression of elation made its way onto his face. Upon speaking those words, Tony felt his artificial heart clamp down inside his chest. Lying to her did not settle right with his conscience, however good his reasons.

Whitney let out a childish giggle, but almost as spontaneous as that laugh, all the happiness drained from her lovable face, and her shoulders slacked. "But it couldn't be. I'd get sick. And I don't."

"Well, we've only been married four months," he retained a certain chipper attitude within his voice, just to remove the disappointment written within her downtrodden-looking features. It was a shame she hoped for the impossible, he would have more than liked to become a father.

The look on her face remained the same, despite his words. "You're right," her sight drifted to the manila folder lying next to her on the bed. She picked up the envelope, and handed it to him. "This is addressed to you. I think it came in the mail, I can't remember."

"Oh. Thanks." He flipped the folder over in his hands, and found no return address.

"Who's it from?" his wife asked.

"Dunno, I'll find out in a sec." Tony unhooked the paper clip that held the folder closed, and dug his hand inside to pluck out the contents.

"What's it say?"

"I don't know yet."

Tony began to examine the letter, and the further he got, the more sheer aversion marred his features. The typed note stated information he feared one day would leak out, and to this very source. And while he felt a bit of pity for himself over this matter, there was one person this would affect the most - his wife.

Kindly hands rested upon his shoulders, and a voice as gentle as could be whispered, "What happened, dear, what's wrong? Tell me. Please?"

"It's nothing," Tony dismissed his wife's quiet plea. Folding the note in half, he forced a smile to appear on his face, and subsequently, on Whitney's as well. "Don't worry about it."

"All right. I'll put this in your desk later, but right now," Whitney pushed herself up from the mattress, and clasped her hands behind her back. "I made everything you like, and it's not even burned a little bit."

"You're great, you know that?" he dropped his head in his heads, continuing his façade of elation.

She extended her hand for him to take, "Come on, before it all gets cold."

Tony squeezed her small hand, and rose up to stand in front of her. He reached down to brush over her cheekbone with the tips of his fingers, letting the softness of her skin comfort his rampant imagination. "You make me so happy," his voice was down to a whisper as he pulled Whitney into a tight embrace.

"Tony," the light tones she possessed tickled his eardrums, but he still grasped on to her. "We really do have to get downstairs." Her head departed from its previous place on his shoulder, and he met her apologetic gaze. "There's a Glenn Ford movie on tonight, you know, one of those caper movies you like. We can spend some time together then."

"That sounds nice," his features relaxed while he wove her silken locks between his fingers. Her very aura served as a calming mechanism, which, to him, was the most marvelous phenomenon known to man.

"Wonderful." Her palm grazed his cheek, and a light kiss was planted on the other. Frequently, he pondered on the oddity that her lips achieved such warmth. In all logical reason, she should have been cold to the point of hypothermia in a normal person, and yet, she remained the perfect temperature. Perhaps, it had to do with the fact that she thought of herself as a being, and not what she was. "Now, let's go be good hosts. And then we get to have some of that marble cake I made," a smile graced Whitney's features, but no reaction occurred on his.

"Fine," he responded. Tony knew, and understood, that his straight face caused some worry within his wife's mind, but he still did not alter his attitude. Someone knew about _everything_, including the origin of his wife, and the accident that took place two years ago.

"Tony," Whitney broke through his thoughts. "You don't look so well."

"I-I'm all right," Tony patted her shoulder. "You go on and talk with Pepper and Rhodey, I'll take some aspirin and be out there in a minute."

"All right, dear," her lips brushed against his forehead before she parted from the room.

Tony watched as the bedroom door closed behind the carbon copy of his wife. "Oh, Whitney," he said in a breathless voice, "What have I done?"

His mind, on its own accord, wandered back to their short-lived secret marriage. When they ran away out of misguided fear, and were wed in a courthouse near Maine. Nevertheless, the weeks they spent together were the happiest he had ever known. Until her "accident." The day he woke up at her side, and found her imprisoned in a permanent slumber. He often reassured himself during his loneliest times, that she died in a peaceful manner. There were many other ways she could have gone, and though it was the best way, he wished it didn't happen that soon.

It took him three years to complete a marvel of scientific achievement, and yet, he felt no pride when he gazed upon her elegant form. A replacement which would never measure up to its predecessor, a wife designed from blueprints and schematics; a woman made of wires and microchips. And now, someone had discovered her.

The note. The callous record of all that was past, and buried. How he told no one of her death and subsequent cremation. In his mind, the actions he took sounded cold and cruel, though he meant her no harm in the world. He thought it better that way, considering that she left no will. Family members would have broken out of the woodwork to collect the innumerable dollars and cents she left behind, and the very idea of them reducing his wife in that way angered Tony right down to the pit of his soul. So, he lied. And he lied, and lied, and lied some more.

In the end, he reduced her in his own fashion. He degraded her, his wife and half his heartbeat, to a mechanical masterpiece of epic proportions. Now, he needed a method to keep the note-writer quiet, for just a few months more. Money would certainly do the trick, if only for a little while.

_A few more months,_ Tony thought to himself. _Then I can let her go. _Each time he resolved to complete those words, the result was him gaining cowardice. Something got in between, such as his friends - they would think him a monster of his wife were to vanish with no warning. Perhaps he _was_ a monster, or at least a milder form of a sociopath. Some people of genius intelligence flipped that side of the coin. However, at this point, he was not prepared to label himself that far gone.

The sound of a door creaking open startled Tony from his reflections. Peering in from the crack, was the same face that haunted him inside both his dreams and nightmares.

"Hello, darling," the exact blonde said in her exact tone, with the exact stature as that of her predecessor. It was almost freakish how accurate he was in the creation of a duplicate. Odd how he only noticed it, truly noticed it, until now.

As he stared at her, Tony viewed more than just the synthetic flesh. This time, for the first time, he saw the wires, and various programs he installed her with; he saw not his wife, but a computer. And that was unacceptable.

"Are you all right now?" asked the woman who wasn't.

"More than you know," responded the man who was about to lose it all.


End file.
